AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE

New Zealand Times, Volume LXXI, Issue 4259, 19 January 1901, Page 4 (Supplement)

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE

NIKGENDSWO. Where lies the land beloved by all. In youth, or age, or prime— The land where pleasures never pall, A rare and radiant climo?_ tMid golden gleams, Arcadia’s streamsWith a magic music flovy; The spot of earth that gave uo birth Shines with a. gracious glow; But a lovelier laud, more fair and grand. Is the land of Nirgcndswo. O, a rare laud and a. dear.land is the land wo love and know; No fairy shore could charm uo more than tho Land of Nirgendsivo. This is the land where all resort Who seek forbidden joys— Tito laud that’s full of wholesome sport For healthy girls- and boys. They shirk tho school, they break all rule, They play with eager zest; They careless roam, nor think of home. Till warns the reddening West. '’Where were yon?” anxious mothers , nek. And "Nowhere!” ends the quest. O, a wide land and a free land is the land where the children go. And hearts are light from morn till night in Ihe Land of Nirgcndswo.

Young men and maids, in later life. Still to that land repair. And livo apart from worldly strife, In bliss beyond compare. "Where werfc thou, daughter?’.’ "Whither son. -' Wouldet bend thy steps to-nigM ?” A 'graver look the young folks don, Their eyes become less bright. And "Nowhere in particular.” Decides the matter quite. No plory-land of Storyland can half the gladness show . That youths and maids find in the glades of mystic Nirgendswo.

Earn Wedlock cannot quench the love Of Nirgendswo’s delights; Gay Benedick, by specious trick. Gets often there o’nights. Safe in his club,'neglectful "hub” Is deaf to Duty’s call; ■ Vexed nigh to tears, his fond wife hears At last his footsteps fall. ' "Where were you, dear?” “Oh, nowhere, love!” - This answer settles' all. 0, light gleams and bright dreams, with Wine and Friendship's flow. Recall Youth’s joys to greybeard boys in tiro Lund of Nirgendswo.

Old ago comes on; ibis earth grows less, And Elsewhere larger looms; There’s still a thought to cheer and bless Amid the gathering glooms. Man would not dwell in the mythic hell Or Heaven the priests have made; He longs to go to Nirgendswo, To lie in grateful shade. Where the sad are blest and the weary rest. And joys ne’er fail or fade. A far land and a fair land is the laud where the dead men go; There is silence deep and soundest sleep in the Land of Nirgendswo!* J. LIDDELL KELLY, iu the "Bulletin.” "'.Nirgendswo”—German for Nowhere).

AFTER. THIRTY YEARS. 'So here wo are, and we meet once more--Well, life is at least a puzzle; Who’d a dreamt we'd (meet in this crowded street— In the midst o’ this noisy bustle. Thirty years since wo gripped our paw a — Thirty years since—and it's seem in To mo like a day that has slipped away, For I, like a sluggard, dreamin’. Have paid no heed to the march of lime, Ybt it matters little, if any. Forget tin’ time is a. lucky crime. Be the long years few or many. Thirty years, and our heads were thatched With a hair crop growin' neatly. But the reaper of age has the crop despatched, Quickly, it seems, and fleetly. ' For the top of our pates are as shiney now. And as clean, as a white creek .boulder. But onr hearts don’t fail, for they're just as bale. Though may be a trifle colder Than they were in the days I speak about The days of the hai-vest reapin’. When a golden crop was almost on top Of the sandy surface aleepin’. You’ll remember the rush to Harper’s Creek— But who in the world that wouldn’t ? With Cranky Nick and Slogger Mick, Well, those that know’d 'em shouldn’t. They were a. half-mad, careless, crowd That then was at Harper's campin'. They’d walk like'fire,( and had limbs like wire, ■ • ■' ■ Which stood to them good when trampin’.

If you wanted a feed, they'd give you a feed; If you wanted to fight, they’d fight you. They’d treat you as mate if they found you straight,' ’ ' And to half of thsir T.iiack iavite you. They’d—“Good-byte.’’ Then, good-bye, your’e off to the tram. Blest if I wasn’t, forgettin’ . The city, it’s, life.-it’s bustle and strife. But hang it. I mustn’t be frettin’l But meetin’ you, mate, is to almost fed the. The glow of the camp-fire burnin’. To sniff the rcent of the old days spent, But, there;- oh, bother’thie yearnin’'. THOMAS McMAHON. Wellington.